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I find decay fascinating. Not the decay of flesh, skeleton in the grass, sinew and muscle and malodour but decomposition of concrete, a headless statue in the grass, nature taking back what is hers. Listen to her breathe. What is the word for leaves rustling in the wind? Psithurism. A dead word.  *** It's a Sunday afternoon and I am the only one here. The cemetery rolls with the hills, green and cracked and quiet. Quiet? No, peaceful. There is a highway on the other side of the trees, beyond the rows of crosses and weather-beaten tombstones, and even here I can hear the dull rumble of vehicles on asphalt.  *** I find decay fascinating. Not the decay of people, of old flowers and funeral homes, but of ideals. Beliefs and faith can unravel so easily and once I start I can't stop picking at the seams. They are consumed if held too close to the flame. Stench. Burnt plastic and youth. I used to believe I don't deserve happiness. There is a spade in my backpack. The ground here i

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